Thirty-seven
Chiara
The plane doors open, and the line stalls in the aisle.
I shift my bag higher on my shoulder, eyes on the exit, moving as soon as the row clears.
Jim stands just past the gate, one hand in his pocket, the other holding a folded piece of paper. He doesn’t wave. He just waits for me.
He can’t make me go with him, but rather than ignore him, I stop in front of him.
“You’re not going to change my mind,” I say.
He holds the paper out between us. I take it without unfolding it.
“Malibu Colony,” he says. “You’ll need a car.”
I look down at the address and then back at him. “Thank you. I can do the rest on my own.”
He doesn’t answer that. “Rental counters are down that escalator.”
I hold his gaze for a second longer and then turn.
I follow the crowd to rental cars. With nothing to slow me down, I stop at the first counter that’s open.
“I’d like to rent a car, please,” I say, setting my bag at my feet.
The agent looks up from her screen. “Reservation?”
“No,” I say, sliding my ID and credit card across the counter. “Whatever you have ready.”
She types, glancing back at me. “We’ve got a compact available. Premium’s about twenty minutes out.”
“Compact is fine,” I say. I look around, and I don’t see Jim or any of his team. That’s a relief.
She nods once and runs it. “Returning here?”
“Yes.”
She prints the receipt and slides it across with the keys. “B14.”
I follow her directions, and I arrive at a nondescript silver compact. It smells like plastic.
I drop into the seat, start the engine, and punch the address into Waze. The route loads in blue, the line stretching up the coast.
I have her address, and I’m off to see my mom.
The word still doesn’t sit right. Mom.
We had a funeral for her. I stood there and listened while they told me she was gone. Now, I’m driving toward a door that says she isn’t.
I pull out of the garage and follow the signs toward the coast.
The freeway opens and then narrows as the road bends toward the water.
Once I hit the Pacific Coast Highway, the first stretch of the coast hits hard—blue water, wide sky, houses set back behind glass and stone like they’re built to watch everything below them.
I shift lanes and follow the voice through the speakers.
“Continue for eighteen miles.”
The road curves along the water, the guardrail tight at the edge as I adjust my grip on the wheel and follow the bend.
What do I say when she opens the door?
Why did you leave me?
Why didn’t you take me with you?
The coastline opens again, water stretching out under the sun, flat and endless. Houses sit above it, all glass and stone, untouched.
Like nothing ever reached them.
I follow the curve as the road pulls inland for a stretch and then back out again, the navigation voice steady and indifferent through the speakers.
“Continue for twelve miles.”
Mom.
The word doesn’t settle. Not here. Not like this.
I shift my hand lower on the wheel and keep my eyes on the road as traffic tightens near a light and then breaks again.
I don’t know what I’m walking into.
I don’t know if I’m walking up to her or standing in front of someone who left and never looked back.
I press the accelerator and follow the road forward.
Burn scars cut through the hills as I climb—blackened edges against new growth, patches where the land hasn’t decided what it is yet.
I grip the wheel tighter and keep moving.
The road drops again and the town pulls in around me—shops, tight turns, traffic slowing just enough to notice it.
“Turn left.”
I follow it.
The houses change again. Closer now. Hidden behind hedges and walls that don’t need to be tall to keep people out.
“Continue to the destination.”
The gate appears without warning.
I slow and roll forward, stopping at the line.
The guard opens a sliding glass door. “Good afternoon. Where are you headed?”
I glance down at the paper and read it off the address Jim provided me.
“I need your driver’s license.”
My heart races. I have a driver’s license with Alyssa’s name on it. I hand it to him.
He doesn’t move. “Who are you here to see?”
“My mother,” I say, folding the paper once in my hand.
“I need a name,” he says, tapping the counter lightly.
I look back down at the address and then up at him.
“I have the address,” I say.
“And I have a list,” he replies.
“Then call the house,” I say, leaning forward slightly. “Tell her Chiara Bullucci is here.”
“And who am I asking for?” he says.
The question hangs there as he waits. I glance down at the paper again—street, number, nothing else—and say nothing. “I don’t have a name,” I say.
He leans back a fraction, reaching for the phone. “Then I don’t know who to call and I can’t let you in without them telling me it’s okay.”
The gate doesn’t move.
I sit there with the engine running, the address in my hand, and nowhere to put it.
“Please,” I beg. “Chiara is the name you need to use.”
He slides the license back toward me. “You gave me two names, and neither one is on my clearance list.”
A horn sounds behind me. Short. Controlled.
I glance in the mirror long enough to see a black Mercedes stopped too close to my rear bumper.
“Call the house,” I say again, calmer this time. “Tell them Chiara is here.”
The guard exhales through his nose and looks past me toward the growing line behind my car before reaching for the phone.
The Mercedes horn sounds again before he can dial.
A man climbs out of the driver’s side wearing linen and sunglasses despite the shade from the gate structure. He walks toward us with the easy confidence of someone used to getting through barriers without being questioned.
“Is there a problem?” he asks the guard.
“She doesn’t have clearance.”
The man looks at me through the open window. “Then she needs to move.”
“It’s being handled,” the guard says sharply before lifting the receiver.
I keep my eyes on him while he dials.
“This is Brian at the front gate,” he says after a moment. “I have someone here requesting access.”
My grip tightens once around the wheel.
A pause stretches on the other end.
“She’s giving the name Chiara,” he continues, his tone turning more formal. “Identification says Alyssa Visconti.”
The silence that follows feels longer.
The man from the Mercedes shifts impatiently beside my car, his fingers tapping once against the roof. “Come on,” he mutters. “People live here.”
I ignore him completely.
“She says she’s here to see her mother,” the guard adds.
Another pause. Longer this time.
I lean slightly toward the opening in the booth, trying to catch something from the other end of the line, but all I hear is the low cadence of a woman’s voice.
The guard’s expression doesn’t change.
“Yes,” he says quietly. “Understood.”
My pulse slows instead of quickening. Everything inside me suddenly still.
He lowers the receiver carefully back into place before looking at me again.
“They’re aware you’re here.”
The space between us tightens.
“And?” I ask.
His eyes hold mine for a second before he answers.
“They said they don’t know you.”
“That’s not possible.” Tears pool in my eyes. I’m so close.
“I’m sorry,” he says. “You need to move your vehicle.”
I stare at him another second, waiting for something to change. For the phone to ring again. For someone to step out from behind the gate and tell him there’s been a mistake.
Nothing happens.
Behind me, the Mercedes taps its horn again.
I take my license from the guard without looking at him and place it on the passenger seat beside me.
The guard steps back toward the booth. “Ma’am.”
I nod once like I understand.
Then I pull the car forward and drive through the turnaround lane before the gate without ever looking back toward the house hidden somewhere beyond it.